Heart of Thorns
by vintage-eloise
Summary: When Sherlock is at his lowest and to all intents and purposes he is dead, he seems stuck in a stubborn cycle of boredom and caution as he hides in plain view from Moriarty's men. All until he meets a stranger, an acomplice who is as quick-witted as himself and equally as irrational. Only she can relate to emotions in a way Sherlock can't, can she save him from himself?
1. Chapter 1

_Nearly two years ago to the day a certain Sherlock Holmes committed suicide, declared himself a fake and left one man alone in world that without his best, and only friend was lonely. John Watson was that man left behind, soldier, doctor, companion. John continued to live in 221b Baker Street, alone at first and then flatmates came and went, none of them were Sherlock, not one was even close. He'd written everything that needed to be accounted and said, every case typed up, and every adventure catalogued. All of Sherlock's personal belongings had been taken by Mycroft into what John had assumed was storage; though at the time he wasn't sure why Mycroft had so suddenly whisked the whole lot away so suddenly, John wasn't going to argue. Several therapy sessions had taken place, many arguments started not to mention the thousands of tears shed. Now after the storm of almost two years of pain and sleepless nights John was getting better, his days were spent thinking if other things, his job, his patients, his new mind-numbingly average life. However something was stirring by an abandoned shop doorway on a bitter morning in central London._

Sherlock opened his eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly against the flood of intense sunlight and reflecting glass, his lungs packed with ice-cold air as he took a somewhat painful breath in. Manoeuvring into a seated position he tilted his back onto the wall behind him as he looked at his hands, they were coarse, blackened with grime on top of all the scars and bruised tissue. His knuckles cracked as he put individual pressure on each bone; eight times he listened to the perfect click alongside the sense of release that came with it. Catching a momentary glance of himself in the glass of the boarded up entrance that he had nested himself in he found himself looking practically emaciated, though meals had never been his priority even the great Sherlock Holmes needed sustenance. Gaunt and pale you could more or less see past the skin through to the withering muscle and throbbing veins, even Sherlock's eyes had lost their colour; what had once been shining earthy tones interchanging like the revolving globe were now merely grey as if a cloud were obscuring what hid beneath.

Closing his eyes again, his fingertips pressed together like a pilgrims as he went into his own prayer, the purity of intelligent thought, the worship of the mind. This sanctity was interrupted by thoughts of John. Both of them back in 221b with a nice delicious crime to devour, of Mrs Hudson complaining about the human lungs in the oven whilst professing she wasn't their housekeeper, of Lestrade's desperate expression when in need of help, of Molly Hooper's willingness to help in anyway. Thoughts of Irene. His brows knitted as he tried to concentrate on anything else but life at Baker Street.

Several hours passed this way, like that or of his watching people, keeping his finely tuned mind and skills of observation well equipped always picking up new things, scanning them all in a matter of seconds. Suddenly he caught sight of a familiar face, other of homeless network coming towards him looking quite inconspicuous and not a strange sight in the middle of London. As he carried on limping along the pavement Sherlock continued to scan the rest of the street, recognising some of the faces that came this way every morning to work. For example the recent divorcee -that worked in the office two streets up from where Sherlock was- who was hung-over for the fourth Monday in a row, thanks to her now trademark day old make-up, greasy hair and the water bottle that she clutched taking clumsy gulps every seventh step. Or even the office manager who was the serial cheat as the former detective spotted removing his wedding ring each morning before he crossed the street, the manager who he'd watched turn off his phone and take the photo of his family out of his wallet as part of his routine. But they were easy, they weren't deductions they came about from spotting a pattern not like detecting that there was sex addict who worked in the florist round the corner, or noticing that man passing him at that very moment had just come back of holiday in turkey with his girlfriend of about four years whom he'd asked to marry. She'd said yes.

The lumbering tramp had now reached Sherlock, with a swift movement (that seemed quite improbable for a slow shambling drug addict who permanently trembled uncontrollably) dropped a neatly folded scrap of paper into his polystyrene cup. The homeless man carried on shambling as if he done nothing. Sherlock's nimble fingers retrieved the shard of paper, unfurling the note he saw the familiar handwriting spell "Get In The Car" and he gave a sigh of inconvenience. Gathering the small amount of belongings he had into a roll, he saw the whites of his knuckles and the pull of his tendons as he yanked his towering frame from the ground. Taking determined strides he counted to five with each step, calmly yet begrudgingly shifting towards the pavement, as his foot stopped at the side of the road an expensive black car swept up beside him. He gripped the handle, opened the door carelessly and slid inside.

Anthea sat rigidly in the seat beside him, tapping precisely at her phone as if his entrance had not even registered on her introverted radar. Sherlock deduced that throughout the laborious journey she continually updated her employer on his appearance and movements of which he made none, barely shifting his focus away from the window, as he discerned that they were en route to his brother's beloved Diogenes Club.

Upon reaching the club Sherlock was reluctantly escorted –in silence- across the entrance, through the club and into the one room where patrons may converse freely. Both brothers stood scrutinizing, both disgusted, both disappointed in the other; Mycroft pulled at his shirt sleeves from under his suit jacket then interlocked his fingers, stretching them out, contorting them out of shape.

"Won't you sit down; you're making the room look messy."

"I'd rather stand, but don't let that stop you."

"I can see you are as concerned with your appearance as you ever were dear brother" smirked Mycroft smugly.

"As you are with your weight, Mycroft. Still avoiding the bakeries are we?" sneered the younger.

"Ever the comedian, Mother would be proud. I assume you know why you're here."

"I can't go back, not yet."

"I have monitored all four corners of the United Kingdom for the last two years Sherlock, nobodies left, Moriarty is gone. There is no trace of his organisation, or a single affiliate that hadn't had their hand forced, the entire lot got out as soon as he fired that bullet."

"Not now Mycroft, not yet."

"Whether you go back to play happy families with John or not is no concern of mine. But I wish you wouldn't insist on sleeping rough with your homeless friends. The beard really doesn't suit you."

"Will that be all?"

"You know I can set you up somewhere, incognito and all that, it'd only be temporary of course."

"I'll see my own way out then." Sherlock replied stubbornly and without feeling.

So inevitably he did, he made his own silent exit from the Diogenes club, and received several furtive glance as he did, he got back moodily into his brother car with his brother assistant 'Anthea' and sulked for the entire journey back to his boarded up shop entrance. Stepping out of the car Sherlock paused for no apparent reason then carried on normally a few seconds later, as he slipped out the car and proceeded to slam its door it became clear at why he'd hesitated. The car was gone by the time he'd glanced back, disappeared into the ether as if had never been there. Sherlock calmly scurried across the street and stood at his doorway, on his street staring down at a hooded figure stretched out, with one leg hoisted up against the wall opposite; the figure took single harsh drag on a cigarette and expelled a long stream of smoke.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer." Came the voice behind the hood "So are you going to sit down or are you going to fuck off?"


	2. Chapter 2

Rather reluctantly removing her leg from the wall and turning to face Sherlock she looked up, squarely in the eye, as she did this he scrutinized every inch of her that he could –all in a matter of milliseconds practically without trying- her eyes were almost vacant as she took a last momentary glance only to say, "Nice Beard."

"You probably didn't notice" he began still stood, hovering above the homeless girl "Most people don't, but if you'd taken a moment out of your clearly hectic day you would've noticed that my cup and my knapsack are here. As someone who also sleeps rough you would surely know that I, another person in a similar predicament, wouldn't leave my only means of comfort and survival here would I? What homeless person leaves behind the trademark polystyrene cup and scruffy bad behind? So with all that in mind you'd know this is my entrance, so there are two solutions, you are either stupid or have taken my doorway, probably the first. So if you don't mind."

"Sorry mate but I've 'taken' your doorway. I saw you get the little note from your cup, read it and watched to stroll over to that flash car; to be fair I didn't except you to come back. I'm quite happy to budge over, even for a prick like you but if imagine for a second that I'm going to do what you want you can go fuck yourself."

Sherlock was a little affronted, he couldn't deny he was a little shocked, awkwardly lowering himself down to the ground and sat beside her. He was about to do the grand reveal that would get her to clear off; his elbows rested on his knees as he positioned his index fingertips and thumbs together.

"Fourteen or fifteen." Came the only words from his mouth

"Fourteen of fifteen what?"

"Were you fourteen or fifteen when you began to self-harm?" it was cold, nothing in his voice, not a note of even basic sympathy. There came no reply. Instead her limbs closed in tighter around her, a tired head dropped as she put her small childlike hands to her pallid face. Though she didn't move a muscle she said tentatively. "How on earth did you fucking know that?"

"A simple set of deductions, other people don't really do it, but if you insist on being to blatantly obvious than what do you expect. For Instance I couldn't fail to notice-"

"Do I look like I give a flying shit about you and your 'deductions'?" she took a last drag on her cigarette, tossed it to the floor and crushed it violently beneath her boot. "Don't get me wrong, very clever but next time pick someone who wants their past raked up by a total fucking stranger. Oh and it was fifteen by the way, not that it's your business."

Rising from the corner she occupied the girl plodded in the opposite direction, as if her only purpose in life was to drag herself round from one excruciating memory to the next. Sherlock sat backing the effort to get comfortable but this one lingering thought didn't leave him. She didn't want to know how he did it. In her own words she didn't 'give a flying shit' about how he'd worked it all out, he knew more, he'd got it all sussed in his head, every detail and she didn't even want to hear it. Everyone always wanted to hear everything, and more.

Sherlock was certain she'd left and readjusted himself, this was much more comfortable, yet his bones ached as he elongated his long legs, each toe singularly cracked just as his fingers did when he stretched his hands. The vein in his temple throbbed relentlessly, a dull thudding that although a painful nuisance helpfully reminded him that his was still alive; he'd decided to call this vein Mycroft. Even naming parts of his body wasn't enough to distract him from the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, he took a forceful inhalation and shivered blissfully as the pleasure it gave him, the corners of his mouth perked up smugly. Eyes opened his pupils sharply shrank to adjust to the sunlight. It was her!

"Enjoying yourself?" came a much chirpier voice as it looked at his hands as if she expected them to be somewhere else, she spoke before Sherlock had a chance. "I was going to leave you to wallow in your own selfish pig-headedness until I realised. You're meant to be dead." Practically wrestling aside she sat back down where she had once been and Sherlock decided not to interrupt her. "So Sherlock Holmes, how did you come back to life?"

She was good, better than even he himself had anticipated.

"Don't give me any bollocks about 'not knowing what I'm talking about' the beard and tramp exterior had me fooled, but that random telling me about my own life crap was an instant give away. Oh, and the eyes."

"The eyes?" This slip of a girl was proving more substantial by the second "What do you mean my eyes? How could you recognise me I've never met you, unless- "

"Unless I'd seen your photo in the newspaper and read about you solving highly unexplainable cases. You have a high opinion of your own popularity, but you're right."

"You didn't expect me to be wrong did you?" Sherlock struggled not to crack a smile.

"Alright, okay, I get it you're a genius. Cut the crap and get to explaining your apparent resurrection; don't even pretend you aren't dying to tell me. No pun intended." This time Sherlock rolled his eyes however she felt oddly jovial towards his coarseness and blunt exterior. After some time of refusing to reveal how he'd survived the Reichenbach Fall something caught Sherlock's glinting eye, his heartbeat rose dramatically. Heart palpitating above acceptable levels, as his counterpart continued trying to coax him into spilling the beans she was unaware of the danger ahead. Sherlock had only one course of action that he could see open to him.

"What's your name?" he said firmly and without hesitation.

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me your name!" his voice was lowered but the tone was increasingly harsher.

"E-Elodea!" she was petrified, what was he going to do with her? To the world he was still a mad psychopath who'd killed Richard Brook after making him into a superhero villain so he'd have a crime to solve on his Sunday afternoons. But that was two years ago. Sherlock held out a worn, dirty but strong looking hand towards her, without a moment's thought Elodea placed her delicate child-like fingers into his palm as she did Sherlock closed his own around her hand.

"Elodea, I need your help."

She looked deep into his suddenly calm globed eyes that shone nothing but hope and peacefully nodded, little Elodea North was going to help a failed detective who everyone thought was dead, Sherlock Holmes however was coming back to life.


End file.
